Early in the morning, Finn woke up and stretched, his joints cracking pleasantly. In the light of the core that replaced the sun inside the cavern, he decided to take a closer look at the bracelet given to him by the Tree. On its surface, wavy lines ran in all directions, seemingly without order. He had no idea what they meant and decided to postpone this question until he met with Adam.
With these thoughts, he walked to the pillar and picked up a large wooden mug filled with the Tree's nectar. The drink was the same as always—sweet enough and nourishing enough to stave off hunger. Placing the empty mug back in its place, the boy headed toward the exit, and then to training.
He expected a routine sparring session with the Tree's creations—the hunched monsters it usually conjured. But when Finn arrived at the arena and reached for a wooden sword from the rack, he was met with an unexpected surprise. The training weapon seemed fused to the stand and would not yield to his grip.
Glancing around, he caught sight of roots sprouting from the floor, as though watching him. A moment later, one of them suddenly lashed out. Finn didn't react in time and was sent crashing into the weapon rack, knocking every piece of practice gear onto the ground.
He certainly hadn't expected this turn of events, though he was grateful the Tree had limited itself to only one strike. Getting back up, he once again tried to pick up a practice sword, but it clung stubbornly to the ground. For that attempt, another root lashed at him.
This time Finn was ready and rolled aside. But that wasn't enough—several more roots burst from the earth, all aimed at him and ready to strike.
The first blow caught him in the back, hurling him across the arena. Before he could rise, another root whipped his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling again. The air rushed from his lungs, black spots clouded his vision. Each breath stabbed at his ribs.
Trying to roll aside from the next strike ended only with another heavy hit—the root found him mid-movement and slammed him into the stone floor. Finn coughed, struggling to catch his breath. His body was already marked with bruises, every motion an effort.
"You've got to be kidding me…!" the boy rasped through clenched teeth.
Another failed dodge brought two roots slamming into him from opposite sides. Darkness flashed at the edges of his sight, and a metallic taste filled his mouth. Dropping to his knees, Finn gasped, trying to steady his vision.
The whole day turned into an endless cycle of blows and falls. The roots were merciless—any mistake was punished immediately. A strike to the ribs when he moved too slow. A sharp lash across his shoulders when he straightened too early from a roll.
By midday his clothes were soaked with sweat, his breathing ragged and broken. Each strike landed on already-bruised flesh, multiplying the pain. Yet Finn kept rising, again and again, trying to find a way to avoid the relentless attacks.
The afternoon brought harsher trials. The roots seemed to sense his exhaustion and struck harder. One blow to the stomach doubled him over, gasping for air. A retreating step earned him a sweeping strike that sent him to the ground, choking on the arena's dust.
But gradually—through pain and endless punishment—something began to change. His battered body moved differently now. He sometimes managed to dodge the more obvious attacks, even though many still landed.
By evening, Finn's movements had grown more efficient. He was still struck, still sent sprawling, still gasped in pain—but now his actions carried thought. He began to read the rhythm of the roots. Each successful dodge, each precise movement, brought him a joy sharper than the bitterness of pain.
His body was covered in bruises, his muscles screaming from overuse, crying for rest.
At last, the Tree's assault ended, and the cavern's evening core began its slow descent, casting the illusion of sunset. Finn lay sprawled on the arena's cool stone floor, drinking in the air. The exhaustion weighing down his body was unbearable—even the events in the cave where he had first awoken could not compare to this ordeal.
For a while he simply lay there, letting the chill of the stone soothe his beaten flesh. Each breath throbbed in his ribs, each motion drew protests from his muscles. Finally, gathering what little strength remained, he pushed himself up and made his way back to the hut, where the bathing room was. The thought of cool water washing away some of the day's pain lent him the will to move.
Once inside, Finn slowly peeled off his sweat-soaked kimono. His eyes fell on the wooden bracelet he had received the night before. He tried to remove it, but it clung to him as if fused to his very skin—unmoving, unyielding. After several fruitless attempts, Finn resigned himself to the fact that he would have to bathe with this strange gift of the Tree still on his wrist.
Lowering himself into the warm water, Finn let his thoughts wander back to the events of the day. The Tree had shown him unusual attention, and that raised questions—had it ever done this to anyone else in the settlement? Or was there truly something unique about him, a boy without a past?
The water soothed his aching body while his mind drifted farther, to the times Adam spoke of with such reverence. Times when gods still walked among mortals, their presence as real as the Tree's now. Finn tried to imagine what it must have been like, living in a world where the divine was woven into the fabric of daily life.
What struck him most was how the elves had preserved their faith without a single tangible proof. They believed in their god as naturally as they breathed, as though it was part of their essence. That unconditional belief seemed to Finn both alluring and deeply puzzling.